CHARIS, HER TRIUMPH.

Ben Jonson.

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love!

Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan, or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And, enamored, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes! they do light
All that Love's world compriseth;
Do but look on her hair! it is bright

As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother

Than words that soothe her!

And from her arched brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life,

All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touched it?

Have you marked but the fall o' the snow,

Before the soil hath smutched it?

Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier?

Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

GO, LOVELY ROSE.

Edmund Waller.

Go, lovely Rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That had'st thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee; -

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

SERENADE.

From Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

William Shakespeare.

WHO is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness,
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

STILL TO BE NEAT, STILL TO BE DREST.

From THE SILENT WOMAN.

Ben Jonson.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed,

Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.

COUNTY GUY.

From QUENTIN DURWARD.

1

Sir Walter Scott.

Ан! County Guy the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know
But where is County Guy?

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY.

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704; THE AUTHOR SUPPOS'D FORTY.

Matthew Prior.

LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,

Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

1 County, count or lord.